


The Angel of Death

by Yuno_Magic



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Based On Buzzfeed Unsolved, Blood, Buzzfeed Unsolved References, Cautionary Tale, Character Study, Deception, Gen, Minor Character Death, My First AO3 Post, My First Work in This Fandom, Original Character Death(s), Originally Posted on deviantART, Rated For Violence, Serial Killer Ricky Goldsworth, Serial Killers, Short One Shot, Sort Of, theres only one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24043957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuno_Magic/pseuds/Yuno_Magic
Summary: In every ugly thing on Earth, something beautiful strides. But in every gorgeous and wonderful being, something sinister can hide.Ricky Goldsworth took the form of an angel, only to be a demon in disguise.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	The Angel of Death

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing on this site and my first time writing for the Buzzfeed Unsolved fandom so any constructive criticisms and feedback is appreciated! This was hella fun to write and I’ll most likely be writing more since I have nothing better to do during quarantine besides my assignments. Anyway, enjoy reading! ❤️

There was a phrase. 

A phrase used in the English language to evoke how one must express no bigotry over the quality of something based on its outwardly appearance. 

To not show such animosity against an ugly duckling who’s content of character was as pretty as a flower blossoming on the first day of Spring. 

“Don’t judge a book by it’s cover.” Someone who’s name was lost to time had once said. In order to put an end to such loathing of others once they take a glance at their image, before turning away in disgust. Clearly, it meant that something ugly is capable of showing beauty from the core of their own, unique being. Many humans had taken this phrase to heart and chose to look at others from that perspective. 

Little did they know that this phrase alone, would foolishly lead them to such great danger. They’re so used to looking at the meaning of things from a fish-eye view, but refuse to see the other side of the coin all together. Soon, the perspective they had chosen to take on that string of words may be their downfall. 

There was a man. 

A man who was like a rare treasure to many. 

He was always moving, maybe stopping by at a bar or two to take a swig of beer. The heels of his jet black dress shoes clicking and clacking against the pavement, strolling down the bustling streets of Los Angeles. He was a beacon amongst all of the cheap sticks of candles that illuminated the city at evening. He was recognizable and very much elegant in the way he dresses. Always in a suit and tie, gray dress pants and a watch on his right wrist. 

But he never bothered to look at it to check the time, he didn’t waste a second to take a quick glance at it. It was evident he had no care in the world. Yet he travelled downtown like he was always in a hurry, never stopping to catch his breath. Darting from bar to bar, restaurant to restaurant, hotel to hotel. Back forth, forth back. From night and day. From dusk till dawn. When the moon rises and the sun falls. As soon as the birds sing their morning choir, while the crickets hum a sleepy lullaby. 

He was everywhere, often disappearing quickly as he couldn’t just stay in one place. Even when he’s gone in a flash, someone may be lucky enough to run into him. They’d be lucky enough to see his face. Lucky enough to know his name. He was broad and tan, standing with his arms tucked behind his back at all times. He was a tree to some women and a mouse to some men and everywhere in between. Onyx hair always so perfectly combed into slick black waves, one couldn’t stand wanting to ruffle it all up until it was a mess of raven locks. 

His eyes were the painting’s main center piece. They were magnetic, dazzling and golden. Golden like a field of marigolds and sunflowers at summertime— No— they were golden pools and swirls of honey. Better yet... if someone were to look into those windows, to Ricky Goldsworth’s soul (as ironic of a name that is) they may have found glistening stones of amber behind them. Leaving them craving and starving for something more, as if they cannot be satisfied with the presentation of this man alone. 

Everything about Ricky was perfect. Like he was carefully crafted by the hands who created the universe in his workshop up in the clouds above. Anyone would be lying if they said that they hadn’t called him “Angel.” He was well-mannered, respected, well liked. How fitting for a fellow like he. Though, the pressing questions still seem to remain unsolved. Who was he really? Why must he survey the city non-stop like the future won’t arrive at the gates? What are his ambitions? Who is he? Perhaps, the answers lay not too far ahead. Maybe at a great cost. 

Somebody must remember the phrase one may say to another. When they encounter a pitiful, wretched, seemingly unskilled creature dressed in rags with dirt decorating their face. Don’t judge it’s shell, remember that beyond that filthy clothing and greasy hair may be a kind and pure soul. That’s the way humans look at it now. By not showing such hatred against something by the quality of it’s image, if it was unpleasant. Have they ever thought about the opposite? Have they ever thought about the ambiguity that phrase had? It’s just a phrase that meant something good. Innocent and humane. Right? 

Even a simple dialect can have an entirely different meaning from the one people kept referring to all the time. And Ricky had taken advantage of that slogan. Transforming that little string of words into something entirely new. It remained the same, yes. Same phrase. Same words. Same language. Same vowels. Same consonants. Maybe the same context. But not the meaning. He invented a new one, a double meaning. And it was simple. Something has the ability of being wicked at the roots of its soul, while at the same time, looking rather beautiful. 

Ricky kept bringing life to those he had encountered throughout the city. Offering a pleasant— rehearsed smile to those walking by. Handing out compliments and adulation like they were candy to kids on Halloween. Too much candy. He was charming, pleasing, dynamic, at least amiable. His qualities mixed in with his clean-cut looks were a recipe for disaster. He was pleasurable, it’s true. Goldsworth knew that since the beginning. Since then, he used his angelic traits as a tool to take advantage of those who were unfortunate enough to fall for his tricks. Everywhere he went, they would follow. Mimicking his foot steps. Swooning and sighing, gushing over how beautiful— how handsome he was. 

It was only nice to listen to. 

Just, nice. That was all. 

Because there was something he loved hearing more than getting praised by men and women alike. More so than the orchestras and violin solos held at five star restaurants or bad karaokes sung by drunken college students at 10 PM. Those who had a taste of his sweet poison wouldn’t be able to make it out in one piece. Poison so pretty, violent, and colorful it was maddening, so addicting. They loved the rush, they loved the thrill, feeling the adrenaline surge through their veins— more more more! They just couldn’t wait a second more to be with this man.

Ricky would invite them to hotel rooms or offer to come over to their own homes with empty promises of giving them a great time. They were under his spell, entranced by his incantation. If only they could turn back, find a way to break out of it, but it was too late. Once they’d reach their destination they had desired, the night’s plans were on the table. Ricky would always offer to have fun with his victims, his own kind of fun. 

Ricky wanted to have fun with murdering them. 

Ricky had fun sharpening his knife, using the tip of the silver blade to rip their chests open.

Ricky always had fun tearing away at the flesh and watching the blood ooze out. Watching the red staining the floor and seeping into the carpet. 

Ricky would always have fun watching his victims struggle, squirm and cry out in agony. Gasping and choking on their own bodily fluid as he tortured them, slicing away at their skin.

Murder was just Ricky’s favorite fun thing to do. 

If it was one thing Ricky had loved more than hearing terrible singing at bars, he loved hearing the screams erupting from the throats of his prizes. Each scream was different with each victim he had killed and tallied off. Each getting louder than the last one. It didn’t matter how much they had cried for help. Nobody came. Nobody ever will. It didn’t matter how many times they would beg for Ricky to let them go, to have mercy and let them live another day. He never did. He never will. It didn’t matter how many he had tempted and charmed, they all end up meeting the same fate. He was never satisfied. He never will. He knew he wanted more of this violent delight ever since his very first kill. He always will. 

He remembered vividly as he watched him crawl across the bathroom floor, red tainting the pearly white tiles like roses blossoming in the garden at Spring time. Helplessly dragging his arms adorned with incisions of complex shapes cut deep into his flesh. Watching the flow of tears streaming down his slit face, hearing his voice quiver as he pleaded, one last time to let him live. But to no avail, Ricky only cackled and smiled at the dying critter maliciously. Carefully drawing the blade of his knife across the dying animal’s throat, then twisting it around and shoving it through his neck, watching the sky blue from it’s eyes be overcast with clouds of gray, as it whimpered out it’s last breath. 

The carcass hit the cold floor. He cleaned up the blood and disposed of the body by dismembering it into individual limbs and pieces. Arranging it into a neat little pile in the middle of a parking lot for someone to see. 

It was very clear who he was now. Ricky was a serial killer. There was a reason why he had been strolling through the busy avenues like he was running out of time. Thats because he was. He was a hungry animal searching for it’s prey, it’s next victim to feast upon. His thirst for blood couldn’t be quenched until he fulfilled what he had wanted. He couldn’t stay in one place not because he would have been caged behind iron bars, but because he needed and craved for more. More victims to lure in and slaughter like farm animals. 

There was also something vicious behind those golden eyes. No— they weren’t windows to shining ambers. They weren’t a meadow of sunflowers and marigolds— nor were they sweet puddles of rich honey. No— they were portals to an atrocious fire ignited by the torches of Hell. The flames danced and crackled as it roared out an anthem of blazing glory, collecting the ashes of the long departed souls of what was once living. 

Nothing could escape it’s fiery hold. Those who had tried were only rewarded with death’s warm embrace. No one walks out alive at the hands of Ricky Goldsworth. He always makes sure of it, and finishes the job every time with a smile. Grinning maniacally, all teeth as he stood in the middle of the flames. Watching the world burn. 

His fatalities were unique, leaving the bodies in strange locations and festooned with wounds that left tiny messages, flesh carved into strange shapes. If detectives were to look at the photos, they wouldn’t resist the urge to vomit. 

What people would call screams, Ricky would call music. What people would call victims, Ricky would call trophies. What people would call a bloodbath, Ricky would call a party. What people would call murder, Ricky would call art. What people would call Hell, Ricky would call paradise. 

Ricky had the habit of turning things seemingly harmless and innocent into something evil and cruel. He took his gracious appearance as a gift, making the job easier for him. Appearing as a wolf dressed in sheep’s wool and skin. There was another phrase he embedded into his mind. “Looks can be deceiving.” Ricky Goldsworth was the real epitome of that phrase to his victims. A master at deception. 

He always fled the crime scene, disposed of the evidence, often leaving a distorted and mangled message with his work he had taken such pride in. His acts have left Los Angeles in deep fear as stories about the carnage were told all over the news. They may stop for a period of time, with some faith being restored. But Ricky would always come back to wreak havoc once again. 

One thing is for sure that everyone had learned something from the slaughter. Not all angels they may encounter were sent from Heaven, even Hell made it’s own. All everyone knows about the killer was that he lures in his prey with his heavenly body and kind-hearted cloaked words, leading them up to their demise. Like moths to a raging flame, death swarms around what they used to call “angel.” 

A devil in a disguise so misleading as he was along with such sadistic intentions, and the destructive lust for human red wine and maybe a side of entrails. It was finally time that Ricky gained his rightful name as a serial killer. He took it as his greatest achievement yet, choosing to live by that name until he descends into the bowels of the underworld after he perishes. Choosing to continue his killing spree to show everyone that not all saints are as innocent as they may seem.

For that reason, Ricky himself and the people of LA call him, “The Angel of Death.”


End file.
